


You love the roses - so do I

by Kaimera



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-02-07 10:54:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18619198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaimera/pseuds/Kaimera
Summary: A quick glance at the clock hanging on the back wall tells him it’s just barely past three and he suppresses the sigh that threatens to well up. Exhaustion sets itself deep in his bones, but he’s fallen for that trick before. The episode may have passed, but if he heads back to bed, sleep will be an elusive bitch.In which; Gabriel is the owner of a flower shop and Jesse's just trying his best.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> *shows up after a decade to throw this into the abyss and runs away*
> 
> WARNING: slight foray into some potentially triggering PTSD symptoms. Please be careful.

It’s dark.

Dark and suddenly very, very quiet.

_ That’s okay, _ Gabe thinks, his mind scrambling to adjust to the whiplash change in environment, reeling to take stock of his situation.  _ That’s okay, _ he repeats, he’s been trained for this, he knows what to do. There’s something heavy and substantial pressing down on his chest and he needs to get it off and  _ that’s okay, _ because he’s been pinned down by weighty objects before and he knows how to get himself out.

Except…

Except he’s not being held down by anything. He’s sitting upright and his arms are by his sides and – this has happened before.

Doesn’t stop the usual awareness that he’s awake from crashing into him like a wave, though.

His racing mind slows down, automatically supplying the cornerstone thoughts: he’s in his bed, in his home, and it’s probably a ridiculous time in the night (or morning), and he’s safe.

Safe.

He blinks away the phantom flashing spots that swim in his vision; sunburst flares that lit up the back of his eyelids not thirty seconds earlier. They’re accompanied by the now-fading sounds of rapid staccato patters, gradually being replaced by something that’s loud and booming. Thundering and steady. Heartbeats.

_ His _ heartbeats.

The crushing feeling on his chest is still there.

Gabe releases a shuddering breath that quakes through his entire body and drags a shaky hand down his face. He’s not surprised when it comes away wet (an absent-minded thought occurs that he’ll have to wash the sheets again) but he stares a moment too long at the fuzzy outline of his fingers. Clenches the trembling digits into a tight fist.

Right. One of  _ those _ nights, then.

Before the memory of the nightmare has a chance to play itself out, he’s out of bed and snatching up the grey hoodie hanging on the back of the door.

(He contemplates leaving it behind given his sweat-drenched state, but figures he’s more likely to catch a chill with half of his body exposed in any case.)

The hoodie is yanked on roughly as he pads outside and crosses the sparse living room to the front door, a set of keys lying on the kitchen counter swiped up as he passes it by. He doesn’t bother with shoes as he lets himself out and begins the silent march down the stairs that lead directly into the shop. As soon as he unlocks the secondary metal gate, a multitude of sweet scents hit him and almost immediately the tension in his shoulders start to loosen.

It’s not enough, though.

The knotted ball in his chest remains and his breaths haven’t slowed down since he woke up, and it’s all in his head – Gabe  _ knows _ it’s all in his head – but he can swear that the air has started tightening around him, like a valve being turned and slowly, torturously cutting off what meagre supply there already is.

_ Find an anchor, _ the recitation comes almost at once, just barely cutting through the fog gathering in his head.

Mindlessly, he reaches over to flip a switch on the wall as he walks in and – oh, look at that, now his corneas are on fire. Gabe winces and blinks rapidly, trying to adjust while his gaze sweeps across the messy workshop, taking in the variety of flowering pots littered on the floor, on the bench, on the window ledge to the right.

It’s not here.

He hates the sense of alarm that’s slowly wrapping unwelcome and, unfortunately, well-acquainted claws around his throat, tries to ignore it, to push it down and ebb the flow. He knows what’s coming, he  _ knows, _ but it doesn’t stop his jaw from clenching until it aches and god _ dammit he hates this. _ Something flickers in the corner of his vision and his head whips around, only to have those damn spots reappear once more and – is that his heart speeding up?

_ Find an anchor. _

He fumbles for the light switch again and throws himself back into darkness.  _ Where is it? _

Thankfully, logic supplies an answer: outside, in the main shop.

Gabe stumbles through the swing doors and into the front store. The lighting in here is much kinder, moonlight filtering in through the glass roof above to illuminate the room in a soft glow that turn the flora around him otherworldly. Any other time Gabe might enjoy it. As it is, floundering about almost drunkenly, his lungs feel like he’s just put them through a marathon and his palms have turned disgustingly clammy. He barely registers the near-celestial ambience, eyes darting instead to the obvious corners of the room, because if it’s not in the workshop then it’s out here, it  _ has to be, _ because he never takes it anywhere else and if he can just calm down enough to retrace his memory of when he last had it, he’ll remember, but he can’t because – “Where the  _ fuck _ is it.”

_ Find an anchor. _

There.

His frantic gaze finally lands near the front of the store and he immediately picks out a small, dark pot nestled almost snugly amongst a row of begonias. Before he knows it, he’s crossing over and scooping the plant up, fervently tracing the familiar shape with his eyes.

That stupid weight in his chest lifts with almost absurd immediacy and the air he breathes in somehow feels lighter as he cradles the clay pot and thoroughly examines its singular inhabitant. The action is mechanical by now, already doing wonders in pacifying his frayed nerves. Reassured that everything is intact, a glare slips over to the begonias, almost as if in accusation. Not because he blames them for the ordeal (he doesn’t), and certainly not because it makes him feel just marginally better (it does).

Gabe returns his attention to the plant in his hands. His fingers unconsciously seek out the petals, lightly rubbing them in between his forefinger and thumb as fragments of his nightmare – memory? – come crawling back. This time he allows it, but there’s no accompanying dread to it. It’s not the first time Gabe’s had this one, though he still grimaces as he remembers the same grey skies overhead, darkened with smoke and gunfire, and contrasting with the red-orange bursts that set the field before him ablaze, strangely silent – always silent. The air is instead filled with the sounds of barked orders and furious shouting (the words of which Gabe has yet to discern), punctuated by heavy artillery.

He never hears any screaming. No wails of pain or howls of terror. Never those.

Sighing heavily, Gabe cuts it off there, runs a hand through his sweat-damp curls. Dejection knows better than to pay him a visit by now; it’s been nearly a year and he’s always known that the...aftereffects of that life will linger indefinitely, will never truly vanish. Still, it’d be pretty fucking swell if he could get through at least two whole weeks without being plagued by the occasional night-time interruption. Probably asking too much, he thinks dryly.

Gabe spends a few more minutes prodding at the unusual stems and gently brushing the petals as his heart rate slows down to a more regular pace. Only then does he relax enough to lift his head and appraise his surroundings, awash in the glow of the moon overhead.

The main store is relatively generous in size, though it isn’t the largest shack of the compound. Mounted shelves frame the upper walls to his left and right and wooden tabletop displays and corner stands line up beneath them; meanwhile, two large, solid oak tables take up the most space in the middle of the shed. Every square inch of those surfaces are occupied by the colorful splash of the flora variety.

A quick glance at the clock hanging on the back wall tells him it’s just barely past three and he suppresses the sigh that threatens to well up. Exhaustion sets itself deep in his bones, but he’s fallen for that trick before. The episode may have passed, but if he heads back to bed, sleep will be an elusive bitch.

Might as well make himself useful, then; the hours until he opens won’t eat themselves up. So Gabe goes in search of a watering can and finds one that’s half full before he sets his little pot down on the marble-top counter to feed it, crooning out soft encouragements as he does so and trying his best to bury the irritation of yet another sleepless night. Once he’s done with that he sets about the rest of the shop to check on the other plants, letting the moonlight guide him in his work while he falls into the easy and soothing routine, frequently poking into the soils of different pots before tilting the can into them.

The furniture and overall arrangement of the shop was designed with a sense of cosiness in mind, encompassed by plants at different height levels as you traverse about, though not too much that it should feel stifling. And ever since Gabe installed hooks in the ceiling to hang a handful of fern baskets around, it gifted the area with an ethereal air after the sun went down, especially on nights when the skies overhead are cloudless and the moon peeks through. Like tonight. Coupled with the white light spilling in from above, the shadows cast across the room have a tendency to make Gabe feel like he’s wandering in his own little private jungle sometimes. It’s serendipitous, really. An accidental marvel meant only for him, and the more he putters about, the more it takes the edge off.

It feels safe, feels like home.

_ Albeit a lonely home, _ the words come unbidden just as he reaches a wooden crate by the store entrance. Gabe blinks and frowns down at the set of heathers atop it, momentarily thrown.

Sure, he lives alone, runs the store alone, but he’s got friends he visits, people he occasionally talk to. Hell, even his customers are plenty friendly and he keeps up with them just fine. So, no. He’s not  _ lonely. _

Is he?

Just as quick as it ambushes him, he dismisses it. Of course not.  _ You like the isolation, _ he reminds himself. And he does, Gabe enjoys the peace of living alone, doesn’t feel the need to seek out more social interaction than necessary. So why the fuck is this bothering him now?

“It’s  _ not, _ ” he mutters a bit too firmly, deciding to discard the traitorous thought before it can dwell any longer. Forcing his mind onto matters of business when it isn’t even the asscrack of dawn isn’t pleasurable, but it serves its purpose to distract and before long, the frustration is forgotten as he moves about while mentally going over the tasks for the day ahead.

He notes that he’ll need to find supply for a new soil type for the batch of dahlias he’s recently coaxed to life (it’s not taking well to the current one), and puts aside a pot of blooming orchids that are meant to be delivered later on today to one of his more loyal customers. Old Mrs. Lee fell in love with Gabe’s orchids the first time he introduced his business at the town monthly farmer’s fair. She’s ordered from him several times since then, and while Gabe has always encouraged her to pick the ones with buds so that they’d last longer, she never fails to choose those that have already blossomed out.

Then there are the other dispatches he’ll have to make before he opens the shop; the local supermarket has already contacted him for his weekly delivery – they’re running on a shortage of chrysanthemums, lilies, and roses – and the other two florists in town just placed their own separate orders for restocking.

By the time Gabe’s made his way to the adjoining shed that serves as his greenhouse, he’s so lost in his musings that he only just manages to catch the tail end of a motor engine cutting off into the quiet of the night.


	2. Chapter 2

Jesse cranes his neck and studies the building in front of him, frowning up at the unlit sign and trying to make out the words from his position: _Mama Reyes’ Blossoms._

A twinge of guilt flickers to life somewhere inside him, whispering that the owner of this fine establishment is likely to be quite a few age brackets older than him and more than likely of the fairer gender. Hell, he might as well call it as it is; he’s probably about to rob an elderly target blind – and a goddamn _florist_ at that.

To be fair, it’s not the worst thing he’s about to do – or has done – in his handful of years in Deadlock, but he’d be lying if he says it doesn’t come close.

Still, he’s run out of options, and a desperate man is a ready-made victim, so he’s been told. But Jesse would rob all the beggars and elderly florists in the world if that meant it kept him out of the doghouse and he didn’t end up staring down the barrel of Deadlock’s gun.

‘Sides, he thinks, chewing the edge of his lip, it has to be fate, right? The other towns are all bound to be squeezed dry by now, and sure, it’s a risk to venture out of Deadlock’s hold, but at least this way, pickings are far from slim and the competition is barely an issue. That’s the whole point of travelling out this far.

Jesse originally had a convenience store in mind; nothing too fancy with minimal hassle, plus it’d be akin to the jobs he usually runs with the gang, something familiar to fall back on. But then he took a turn that he thought was a shortcut into the town; a road he very nearly missed if it wasn’t for the full moon’s glow lighting the dirt trail up. It wound through dark trees and Jesse was almost convinced he’d gone off the path and onto a damn forestry trail when the foliage started to grow lighter before opening up to a wide clearing where he ended up, well, _here._

As far as Jesse can tell, it’s a warehouse of some sort, but instead of a singular, giant building, it consists of about five large connecting sheds, all elongated towards the back where it splits off halfway into a second level above. As soon as he realised when he’d stumbled upon, Jesse quickly cut off his bike’s engine, leapt off, and slunk around the perimeter of the area, staying well within the treeline so he was mostly out of sight.

Thrumming with nervous excitement, he started his exploration from the back of the structure, pulling his bandana up to cover the lower half of his face as he stuck to the pockets of shadows and kept mindful of security cameras. There aren’t any, but Jesse found a couple of glass doors at the back of the building on two of the sheds that’s reinforced with metal gates. Glimpses through them only confirmed suspicions of his target’s nature of business when he spotted what looks to be a quaint little indoor garden in one of the rooms.

Now he’s poking his head out from around the corner of the building that he’s braced against, trying his best to study the front of the warehouse and frowning up at the unlit sign. He glances over to where he shoved his bike behind a few trees, looks back up at the dark, quiet structure, then back to his bike again. The silence is almost intruding, but he figures if anyone’s home they would have charged out by now, switched on a light or two or something. As it turns out, there’s not even a peep to indicate signs of life and not a vehicle to be seen anywhere.

He’s alone.

Or at least, he hopes so. He’d rather avoid having to engage in a confrontation with a woman who could easily be old enough to be his grandmother, from the looks of things. Out of habit, his fingers brush over the outline of Peacekeeper tucked in the waistband of his jeans. The contact provides a small measure of comfort and Jesse tries to ignore the fact that it doesn’t lighten the load of guilt now making itself at home in his chest. He takes a deep breath.

In and out. Easy peasy.

Plan A is to try entering from the back via the glass doors, but it’s clear after he expires his second pick that the padlock isn’t the usual cheap brand that Jesse’s used to messing with. Glancing around, he picks up a small rock and tries to bash the metal in with quick, forceful strikes; it dents but refuses to give no matter how much he tugs at it and he huffs in annoyance. When he slinks back to the front of the building only to peer through another similarly fortified door with the same unpickable gate, he lets out a muttered curse. Looks like he needs to move on to more drastic measures, which just leaves the large window – of what must be the shopfront – next to it.

Time for Plan B.

Jesse swoops down to snatch up a sizeable piece of rock by his feet, tossing it up and down in his palm as he stares at his pale reflection in front of him. He glances up at the store sign once more, grimacing beneath the cloth covering the lower half of his face.

 _Sorry, ma’am,_ he thinks for a forlorn moment, deciding he won’t be greedy this time and clean the place up just enough for what he needs. He might be a no-good, thieving gang member, but he’s got a heart at least. Then he takes a few steps away, draws his arm back, and launches the rock at the glass.

To his surprise, it shatters on the first try and he winces at both the spray and the noise that pierces the air.

Well, no turning back now.

As he steps up to the window ledge and hops down on the other side, he bumps roughly into something near the ground that goes sliding off its perch with a painful crash. There’s a distinct crunching sound under his boot as he staggers into it and Jesse quickly backs away, sucking in a sharp breath. “ _Crap._ ”

At least there’s light, Jesse realises belatedly, when he blinks down at his feet and sees dirt, what’s left of a broken clay pot, and some crumpled flowers.

“Fuck,” he says this time, gingerly stepping around the mess as his eyes dart around, half expecting something from the shadows to lunge out at him. A few moments of straining his ears into the steady silence provides the assurance he needs, despite the eerie feel to it.

“Calm down, jumpy,” he mumbles to himself under his breath in a bid to ease the strain present in every goddamn iota of his body. “Ain’t no one here but you and your shadow.” The fact that there’s a distinct lack of a triggered alarm is enough testament to that.

The moonlight streaming in from the glass ceiling above shouldn’t be so jarring, but it’s creating a sense of overexposure that he can’t quite shake. Jesse thinks he’ll gladly take the shadows any day over this.

He pushes the feeling away for now, again taking solace in Peacekeeper’s familiar weight lying against his hip. Even if there’s still someone around (which there _isn’t,_ he sternly chides himself), Jesse’s not going to shoot them point blank, he just...won’t be responsible for what a shock might do to his currently very itchy, very twitchy fingers.

Trigger-happy hands aside, it’s time to get to work.

This time Jesse’s careful to watch out for more plants by his feet and maneuvers his way through a surprising number of greenery towards the back of the room, not bothering to stop and take in the sights. He’s on a job and they’re just flowers, after all. Ain’t nothing he hasn't seen before.

There’s a countertop way at the back that soon comes into view, sitting in front of a pair of swing doors. Jesse perks up at the first sign of possible loot, but when he slides behind it, he’s stumped to find nothing but a whole lot of what looks to be blank paper rolls and a few empty watering cans. Checking its drawers doesn’t yield much either, just more equipment and stationery and no sign of a cash register of any sort.

When he decides to push through the double doors and search back there, he nearly trips on his own damn feet at the darkness that all but swallows him whole, and it takes a solid minute for his eyes to get used to it before he can make out the shadowy outline of various items and furniture in the room. But it’s not enough, so he fumbles for the phone in his back pocket to help him explore the place, letting the soft glow from the screen guide his sight.

It’s quite the mess back here, with empty pots either scattered around the room or left in stacks atop a few trolley carts, a bunch of funny-looking tools strewn across a large bench, and several bags of what Jesse can only guess is soil lining the side wall.

(Vaguely, it occurs to him that it’s all quite a bit of heavy lifting for someone who’s supposed to be on the frailer side of life.)

He doesn’t notice a rather large, dark shape looming overhead the closer he gets to a corner of the room – and then it catches in his peripheral.

“Shit!”

Jesse almost lands on his ass scrambling backwards, Peacekeeper drawn and cocked faster than he can think, aimed up at –

A plant.

A goddamn plant.

The chortle that slips out of him is one part hysteria, one part relief. He uncocks his pistol and tucks it back into his waistband, gives his whole body a quick shake while he wrestles his heart back under control after it as good as launched itself out of his throat. Bending over in a half-crouch, Jesse braces his hands on his knees as he glares up at the leafy offender.

_Easy, Jess._

_Ain’t no one here,_ he repeats the mantra again for a minute that feels more like an hour, until his nerves don’t feel quite so fried. He takes one last deep breath and straightens – then turns around to smack face-first into a brick wall.

His brain must still be short-circuited, because there’s no other way he can explain his less-than-stellar reaction when said brick wall moves very suddenly and very quickly, and there’s no way, _no way,_ that the shrilling squawk that cuts through the air is from _him,_ damn it.

Something hard like iron snaps around his right wrist and has him crying out, and he doesn’t realise he’s been whirled back around until a forceful kick is delivered to the back of his legs that sends him slamming down on his knees. Even then, it takes a while to register that his face is inches from the concrete ground and the sparks shooting up the length of his arm is the limb being painfully twisted up in a weird angle behind his back.

Jesse lets out a rush of air, the pounding in his ears so frantically loud that he feels like he’s owed a fucking heart attack. “Wha–?”

His other hand instinctively goes for the spot by his hip but a sharp pull on his captive arm has him gasping and arching backwards to alleviate the pain. By the time his mind catches up, every muscle in his body is drawn stiff.

And then a voice drawls out from behind him, close enough to rake across his already-rankled tension, “Looking for something?”

It’s deep, low-pitched and dangerously smooth.

And very decidedly _not_ cut from the same cloth as that of elderly female florists.

Well, _fuck._

**Author's Note:**

> This is a McReyes flower shop AU I concocted way too long ago that I only now have the guts to post (and nearly had an anxiety attack doing so). Unfortunately, it's incomplete so I'm not sure if or when I'll be continuing it, but this has been sitting in my drafts folder for over a year and I needed it out. Regardless, hopefully whoever reads what little bit there is enjoys it.


End file.
